Borne on this tide of emotion, we moved from a slow dance to a cot, or the beach, with a man’s sex only seen in photos, and even then…) and semen in our mouth, having recalled the Ogino calendar just in time and refused to open our thighs. Day broke, pallid and meaningless. Over the top of the phrases we’d wanted to forget as soon as we’d heard them, put my cock in your mouth, suck me, we had to write the words of a love song instead, that morning was yesterday, only yesterday and already far away, to make it beautiful, construct a romantic fiction about ‘the first time’, and shroud in melancholy the memory of a failed deflowering. And if that didn’t work, we’d buy éclairs and sweets - whipped cream and sugar to drown our sorrows, or anorexia to purge them. But one thing was certain: it would never again be possible to remember how the world had been before the night we lay with a naked body pressed to ours.